It is a blue, cotton shirt. The shirt belonged to my (1) David. On his birthday before he left college, his mother bought him the shirt. (2) I gave him free use of my bike, he let me wear the shirt, occasionally.
We shared the shirt, and as days (3) , we shared more of our (4) . David was in school by scholarships and grants (助学金). He (5) to keep his scholarships, because without even one of them, he would have to (6) and back on the farm. And in David's home, there was always only enough money to cover the expense. His father died when he was twelve.
(7) David also talked about his father. Usually it was late at night, in the dorm just before bed, and the (8) always ended with tears that flowed from a river of memories and (9) : memories of a father suffering from (10) at a time when his son was just a teenager; longings for opportunities to cure his father's disease. Because disease does not understand the (11) between father and son. Nor does(do) (12) care.
Time passed and we had to say (13) to each other. After lots of hugging, and words of thanks, we eventually (14) . It was on my (15) trip upstairs to our dorm that I saw a package on my bed. I (16) the wrapping paper. It was the blue cotton shirt in a box with a card (17) to it, reading:
Thomas, I can't thank you enough for your (18) . This has been tough years and you have been (19) a friend. Thank you for listening. Thanks for everything.
David
I pushed aside the note, with (20) tears dropping on the shirt.
I still have the shirt today, though it has faded and wrinkled with age.